


Phrasebook

by Jade56



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Bertie is English, First Time, Flirting, Jeeves is French, Language Differences, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:03:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8549017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade56/pseuds/Jade56
Summary: While staying in a French resort, Bertie, who hardly understands any French, falls for a certain employee, who speaks very little English.





	

I didn’t want to go to France at all, to begin with. Not that it isn’t a spiffing country, but I didn’t care much about the sights or know more than a few words of the language. Yet when the time came for a holiday with my deserving aunt Dahlia and her daughter, my cousin Angela, I had to make the concession. They had a liking for Cannes, the popular resort town on the French Riviera, and with the rest of my aunts and cousins being ogres in human shape, it was reasonable that I spare a few weeks in a French resort to remain in the good graces of my cherished relatives.

Unfortunately, it can’t be said that my first few days at the resort were anything to write home about, had there been anyone to write home to. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and all that fine stuff, but I thought the service at the resort left something to be desired. It was a supposedly top-notch place, if on the smallish side, though top-notch I did not find it to be. Perhaps the resort was all right for the most part, but my impression was coloured by the fact that one of the employees was as rude to me as a nobleman might have been to a peasant carrying a few forms of plague.

When I first saw him, I’d actually had the feeling that he was a good sort, considering the intelligent glint of his eyes and the general grace of his manner. He’d seemed agreeable enough when he discussed room arrangements or some such thing in French with my aunt. I couldn’t help but notice that he made a handsome and elegant figure in his uniform as he showed us around the resort. When interacting with only me, however, he was something else.

The man evidently spoke as much English as I French, though it wasn’t just that he said very little to me. When he served my drink, he hardly looked in my direction, and when I finished, he took the glass with a strange amount of care. He also made a swift retreat, as if I really did carry some contagious plague. One might think that I am being overly finicky, but I further suspect that he wasn’t very thorough when it came to my private quarters. For one thing, my bed was made as if the task had been the final stage in a competitive race, and it seemed that he was afraid to touch my clothes at all.

I tried to be polite to the chap, as far as my limited command of his language would allow, yet any cheery greeting or pleasant wave I attempted was flatly ignored.

What struck me in particular was that I heard from perfectly reliable sources, time after time, that this fellow was the most impressive of all the hotel employees. Angela, who speaks impeccably robust French, reported that she had even spoken with the chap at length on a few occasions. His name was Jeeves, she told me, and he had been entirely courteous and charming to her. Other visitors I shared a word with divulged bits along similar lines.

I must admit that I was more than a little peeved at the situation. Why should this Jeeves be courteous and charming to others, and not to me? I considered filing a complaint with the management, yet I thought that I should give the chap a chance, since he had been kind to my beloved cousin at least. In the end, I approached Jeeves with a letter that said cousin had helped me to write. It was in French, and my understanding was that the thing essentially asked him what the deuce I had done to bring on his cold shoulder.

A shocking change came over Jeeves’s face after I presented the note to him. What had once been a reserved expression became, to my astonishment, soft with something like remorse, or guilt.

“ _Je suis désolé, monsieur_ ,” he murmured, his voice lowered to a smooth register that I perhaps was not absolutely unstirred by. “ _Vous êtes si gentil, et vous méritez mieux_.”

Other than the polite honorific _monsieur_ , I didn’t have the faintest clue what he said, and I think he must’ve gathered this from my tilted head and narrowed eyes.

“ _Donnez-moi dix minutes, s’il vous plaît, monsieur_ ,” he said, and at once took a piece of hotel stationary and a pen. I hadn’t quite understood his words, but it seemed possible that he was writing a response to my note, and so moved by the change in his expression had I been that I could only wait patiently.

He flipped through some of the translating dictionaries I kept in my room, and even glanced once or twice at the tome of common phrases I kept handy. Before long, he’d constructed a message, hopefully in English, and was handing it to me. As usual, he refused to meet my gaze throughout the process, though somehow he didn’t exactly manage the impression of coldness I’d grown accustomed to.

 _You are too beautiful, monsieur_ , ran the astonishing message in unreasonably gorgeous handwriting. _It is difficult to regard you. Please forgive me. I know that English men do not love other men. I am sorry to offend you._

I took another look at the man, and the scales fell from my eyes. In an instant, I saw what must have been there from the start. He wouldn't meet my gaze, but his cheeks were flushed in such a lovely fashion. His hands clasped hesitantly together, and though he stood straight as ever, I wager that I heard the faint shuffling of feet ready to make a swift retreat. This wasn’t the behaviour of a rude cove; this was debilitating shyness, and maybe a little shame, too. He was eyeing the door, as if only waiting for the order to leave my sight.

You could say that I was floored, figuratively speaking, though only a miracle kept stray currents from knocking my stunned self to the ground. To think that this handsome, graceful chap thought this Wooster was something special! I was too excited to take a seat and give a proper go at a respectable missive to respond to his. Instead, I picked up the ready phrasebook and flipped to a section that I never imagined I’d use—and had actually considered ripping out, if only to cut down on the weight of the object.

Presenting the page to him, I pointed at some of the relevant lines.

 _Je peux vous offrir un verre ?_ _/ Can I buy you a drink?_

 _Venez-vous ici souvent ?_ _/ Do you come here often?_

 _Il fait chaud ici, ou bien c’est vous ?_ _/ Is it hot in here, or is it just you?_

Jeeves looked at me as if I had gone mad. He paused for a long while, perhaps waiting to see if I would sprout a second head. When that didn’t happen, he held a hand, indicating the phrasebook.

“ _S’il vous plaît_?”

I was pretty convinced that he was politely asking for the item, so I gladly handed it to him. He spent some time perusing, evidently trying to find some phrase that resonated, and I think it was with a sense of compromise that he settled on something adequate.

 _Vraiment ?_ _/ Really?_

“ _Oui! Oui_ _!”_ I cried happily, delighted that I could at least say _yes_.

When I eagerly made a little give-me wave, he returned the book to me, albeit with slowness marked by his continuing disbelief. At once I hasted back to the section that I had referred to previously.

I pointed to another line, which had the beautiful result of a smile from Jeeves:

 _Est-ce que vous avez un plan ? Je me suis perdu dans vos yeux._ _/ Do you have a map? I am lost in your eyes._

With that small, cautious, but decidedly hopeful and elegant smile of his, he pointed to another:

 _Vous n’avez pas eu mal quand vous êtes tombé du ciel ?_ _/ You aren’t hurt from when you fell from heaven?_

Now I was smiling too, though I must admit the Wooster article was what commentators often refer to as the foolish grin. Being in that sort of mood, I couldn’t help but indicate another phrase.

 _Je viens d’arriver dans votre ville. Est-ce que vous pourriez m’indiquer le chemin jusqu’a votre appartement ?_ _/ I just arrived in your city. Could you tell me the way to your flat?_

This last one might have been pushing the bounds of acceptability, and it surprised me by its very presence in a polite, publicly available phrasebook, but I solemnly swear that it produced a genuine giggle from this man who anyone could see was ordinarily the final word on grace and poise. He tried to stop himself, but I was giggling too, more so, and fortunately that seemed to bolster him.

After that, we spent a lot of time together, each going out of our way to enjoy the other’s company.

I used my newfound knowledge to ask him for drinks on a number of occasions and he accepted in each instance. Of course, I always brought the phrasebook along, and certainly I got my money’s worth for it. It was a struggle to communicate anything more complex than what was allowed for in the phrasebook, though we had a jolly good time trying our best. I took the excuse to make the most ridiculous gestures as if playing a game of charades, which, luckily, earned me amusement from Reggie—I had learned that this was his familiar name, which he graciously allowed me to call him by—where annoyance would have perhaps been expected from a less generous spirit.

On one day, though, I found that he was in a more sombre mood than before, and despite my best efforts, I could not gather how to ask him what the matter was, nor do I believe that he could have explained himself very completely. As it turns out, intricate feelings are not well covered by a tourist’s phrasebook, or at least not by the one in my possession.

I did my best to try to cheer him up, at any rate. We sat together overlooking the water sitting amidst the mellow scent of salt, which I suspected brought him some comfort, though there was still a hint of dejection that had not been there before.

I tried to speak with him about his hobbies, his family, and a number of other subjects, but my grasp of his language was too limited, or he was not in a mood for chitchat, or possibly both. It was no hardship simply to sit with him, however, and though he was evidently subdued that day, there was still a feeling of peace around us as we watched the sun set.

When the sun had vanished, and the sky was aglow with twilight, he slowly stood up from his chair, and turned to me. He took my hand, and kissed it, in such a sad way that I was compelled to ask him if everything was all right, which I knew how to do in French.

“ _Tout va bien_ _?_ ”

“ _Oui_ ,” he answered, though the note of his voice was no less melancholic than the manner in which he kissed my hand, and then my arm, and then my neck…

By this time he’d wrapped me in his arms, and I must admit that I was becoming rather distracted. His hands on my hips felt sublime, and when one of his hands started to inch lower, it was all I could do to keep myself in order.

“Good?” he asked softly.

“My God, yes. Yes, please.” I wanted to be as clear as possible, because in this moment, it was more than I could take to be at all separate from Reggie. If only I knew what he truly wanted. Would this bring him comfort, somehow?

He leaned closer, so that we were looking into each other’s eyes, and then his eyes turned toward my lips.

“And this, Bertie?” The sound of my name spoken by his voice, deep and rich and musically accented, was a beautiful thing.

“Yes.”

I don’t really know who kissed whom, but it was a doozy of a smooch. Before long, he was leading me to the bed of my suite, and it felt terrifically right to follow him.

Events were proceeding in a direction that I felt very inclined to proceed in, though I wondered if this was entirely true for Reggie. The note of sadness could still be observed in the way he carefully, even reverently pulled down the sheets for me and helped me with my waistcoat. I can’t say that he was going about the business very slowly, but neither very quickly, as if he had reached some balance between whatever it was that resembled reverence, and whatever it was that seemed like urgency.

“Reggie,” I said, startling myself by the breathless character of my own voice as he smoothly opened my spongebag trousers. It took a longish moment to recall the simple phrase I wanted. “ _Tout va bien_ _?_ ”

“ _Oui_ ,” he answered once more. He sweetly looked at me, possibly trying to melt me and definitely succeeding, and helped me lie back on the bed. “ _Je suis désolé. Je vous aime_.”

I didn’t know what several of the words meant, but something about them nonetheless seemed odd, and then it struck me like a bat. Formality—that was it. I was certain that he was speaking formally to me, and not informally, as there are times when one must decide between these in his language.

Why was he speaking to me in that way? I realised that I’d never paid much attention to the formality of his words. Had he never thought himself permitted to speak to me differently? I wished desperately that I could speak French fluently, if only for a minute, just to understand how he felt.

I like to think that I made a respectable attempt to try to think of the words, but he was kissing me, and holding me. I’m afraid that thinking of any words at all was becoming nearly impossible. By luck, I suppose, he had the necessary goods in his trouser pocket, and before long his hands were slicked and rocking us both, together, and he reassured me in his inspiriting, calming, mysterious, unintelligible voice, while he satisfied the longing in me that called so hopelessly for him.

I flatter myself in thinking him similarly affected, though he was a perfect gentleman all throughout, and treated me with nothing but tenderness when all was said and done.

He helped me into my pyjamas, eyeing the pink-coloured stripes doubtfully, and giving me the impression that he was entertaining some kind of decision or plan involving them, though I could not say anything beyond that. He wrapped an arm around me, and there again, though not without some degree of contentment, was the familiar sadness.

“Please return soon, monsieur,” he whispered to me.

“Return…?” I echoed, in confusion, wondering what he was talking about, or if he had got one or two words confused. That was when the bat of sudden realisation came down on me a second time. “Oh!”

I was scheduled to leave tomorrow!

The holiday had never been meant to be an indefinite one. My aunt and cousin had only wanted a little holiday in France, with every intention to return to the home country. Being one of the employees of the hotel, Reggie was undoubtedly aware of this imminent departure, even though I had entirely forgotten it until now, my mind evidently preferring to occupy itself with Jeevesian subjects.

No wonder my dear man was acting as he was! As far as he knew, tomorrow would be the day that I toddled to the train station, never to return. My thoughts being elsewhere, I had made no attempt to change the schedule.

Not having the words to explain myself, and briefly losing the thoughtfulness to do so in any case, I bolted out of bed, reached for my dressing gown, and with the brisk addition of slippers, left Jeeves undoubtedly perplexed as I legged it to the hotel’s front desk.

The fellow stationed there gave me a sceptical eye, though it was probably a more generous judgment than I would have received from my graceful, dignified Reggie had I given him the time to form an opinion on my choice in clothing for a trip to the lobby. Smiling fondly with this thought, I told the clerk that I wished to extend my stay, that it was only for myself and not my aunt or cousin, that I did not wish to be disturbed the following morning, and that I had overall been extremely pleased with my choice in resort.

He went about doing whatever it is clerks do to move matters along, and handed me a receipt, which I lugged in triumph to my quarters. In said q., Reggie was sitting on the edge of the bed, more confused than I had ever seen him and dashed adorable if I may say so.

I brandished the mercifully bilingual receipt—believing it reasonable to assume that the other language on the thing was indeed French—and surrendered it for inspection.

“I don’t intend to leave anytime soon,” I told him, more so to fill the air as he read it, because I was terribly nervous regarding my supposition that this was something he indeed wanted. “If that is acceptable to you. It would certainly be acceptable to me. I’m not the sort for a short fling over a holiday, Reggie. That’s never what I wanted.”

As he read through the receipt, the face of my dear Reggie effused nothing less than sheer joy. He came up to me and did that thing where he takes me in his arms and makes me a rather dazed and useless but warm and happy deadweight. He directed me to a fortifying chair near the hotel room’s desk, while he kneeled in front of me.

Reggie was a tall chap—it was difficult to notice when he worked, as he could be so discreet that he sometimes gave the impression of not actually being there at all, but it was apparent now as he still had his arms around me. He leaned closer, snuggling against my chest. He played with the sash of my gown.

“Good?” he asked, as gently as before, but with a more evident and entrancing edge of passion.

I hardly understood how we had made it to this point, but I wasn’t in any state of mind to turn down a sound offer. Things were still clear enough that I at least had the decency to hesitate. “Are you sure? You don’t have to. I didn’t extend my stay just for this, you know. I mean, I really care so much about you, and it is so corking to simply be with you. I don’t mean to be a selfish cove.”

The blathering might have continued, but I was cut short by a loving kiss, like the one we had shared on the balcony, and I also can’t say that his blissful, cherished hands slipping through the dressing gown and under my pyjama trousers didn’t distract me.

While he was perched on my lap, he murmured, simply, “Good?”

Decency, I’m afraid, had fled. “Oh, absolutely, yes.”

He dropped back to his knees, and then the rest was sunshine and roses and rapture and gratitude. He didn’t seem to mind my hands in his hair, nor the gasps of colourful English, nor how I tried to thank him sincerely in French for being with me, which I almost certainly did not manage to do, considering my limited knowledge and the diverting situation, though I think it only fair to assert that I gave it an honest try. The attempt I made in the morning when we were lying together was possibly more successful.

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” he told me softly, in return, more than once. Something about it sounded wonderful. I don’t know if that’s because it was said in the informal way, or because, as I later learned, he was saying that he loves me—both facts put together, I should say.

I was originally only able to extend my stay for a few more days, what with the busy holiday season, but I found that several more weeks had opened up before too late. By some miracle, other reservations for the room I was occupying had been cancelled. I wondered if Reggie knew what had occurred, though I’m afraid he didn’t understand me when I mentioned it. I tried to ask him, but he simply shook his head to express his lack of comprehension. Well, it was good luck, anyway, and there wasn’t much reason to question it.

About a year later, when Aunt Dahlia came to ask me what the devil I was still doing in France, I told her that I’d found love, and that was that. It was enough to astound and stagger a native of the typical English values—though this description can only be ascribed to my aunt with some degree of charitableness—yet seeing that I was happy, and being already fond of Reggie since her stay in the resort, she came around to the idea in remarkably short time. I’m still waiting on my darling cousin Angela in this respect, but these things take time, and I have every confidence in her someday accepting the circumstances.

In fact, some time before that, I had been introduced to Reggie’s uncle, who speaks English fluently and goes by the name of Charlie—the family had apparently lived in England in the past, and moved to France when Reggie was very young—and a few other relatives, who generally seemed to look on me favourably. At first I wondered if this was because of my fortunate station of life, but laws being what they were, there was no reason for them to think that any Jeeves might benefit from my circumstances—well, actually, I had changed my will to discreetly reflect the binding of heart and soul to one Reginald Jeeves, but none but myself were presently aware of this.

All in all, things were looking up. We had moved in together in a flat of our own, and we were learning each other’s language, even if he was picking up on my language rather faster than I his. At those moments when we could only shrug and look for somebody to translate between us, we were nonetheless determined, patient, and ready to toss in the effort that I imagine always makes these sorts of things work.

There are some things that Reggie wants to tell me that I can’t understand yet, that he refuses to have translated by another living person, and which make him blush at the thought of looking up in a dictionary—fruity stuff, I imagine, so isn’t that something lovely to look forward to?

Speaking of which, I had taken to writing down my own phrases for reference in the blank pages of the well-used phrasebook. Abundantly helpful, that thing, I dare say. This little bit was, for example, one I had written down, with Reggie’s help, and I turned to it frequently indeed:

 _J’espère que tu comprendra toujours ce que je ressens pour toi._ _/ I hope you always understand how I feel about you._

This was in informal language, too, if you can believe it! Below this line, in the handwriting of a man who was in mind and hand considerably more refined than myself, there was written another phrase, which I don’t think I will ever tire of reading, nor of hearing, nor of saying, in any form.

_C’est écrit dans mon cœur. / It is written in my heart._

End~

**Author's Note:**

> I have studied French for years, but I am by no means fluent. If you see something that needs fixing, please let me know. :)


End file.
